


25-Sleeping Arrangements

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [25]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, POV, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the Boyz manage their sleep schedules, at home and away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	25-Sleeping Arrangements

If he’s asleep, I don’t wake him when I come in, no matter how long I’ve been gone, or how much I want him, though he always seems to sense when that’s the case. Our internal clocks are so different that, even when I’m home, he’s in bed long before I am, leaving me the late night as I leave him the early mornings for time alone. Usually, depending on how tired I am and how the mission’s gone, I’ll peel out of my clothing after Jicky’s gone to bed, have a shower and crawl in beside him. He’s already warmed the bed,  so I leave the covers off to cool down first, and read a bit with nothing but the glow of my datapad in the room.

_He thinks I never wake when he returns from a mission but it’s a rare night when I don’t, no matter what the time. His presence is so bright that it’s like the sun coming up when he walks into our quarters, whether he’s shielded or not. My mouth fills with the taste of tea in varying degrees of sweetness, depending on his mood. But I don’t let on that I’m awake, unless he’s aroused. The rougher the mission has been, the more likely that is. But when he creeps in beside me, damp and warm and smelling of soap, I’m content to let him think he hasn’t woken me, content to let him wind down and cool off before he pulls the covers up and nestles in beside me. Our bed, though I slept alone in it for many years, now feels vast and empty without him, and becomes a snug haven with him in it. I’m glad to have him there, even if only to warm me and the sheets._

Almost always, he sleeps on his back, and with that great, broken, twisted nose, it’s a wonder he doesn’t snore like a dying bantha. But he doesn’t, unless he’s physically exhausted. He’s as serene and silent in sleep as he is in meditation, sleeping the sleep of the just, as they say. No matter how jangled my nerves when I come in, his presence is as calming and restful as a quiet brook. Most nights, I press myself along the length of his body and let the sound of his steady breathing and calm heart lull me to sleep.

_If he’s truly sleepy, he molds himself to me, settling on his side, one leg thrown over mine, gradually slipping between them as he relaxes. His lower hand cups my shoulder or slides under the pillow, the upper hand resting on my chest or curled around my waist. I hear him sigh quietly and then comes his breath on my neck as he tilts his head against mine. He wraps me up in the warmth of his body, in his contentment, in the peace of knowing I am so well-loved that he trusts me in the vulnerability of sleep. He wriggles a little, getting comfortable, and his toes work their way under my ankle, rubbing the way a child rubs a bit of soft cloth, for the comfort of the sensation. And then he sleeps. And so do I._

But some nights, I need not just to touch him, but to be touched. Some nights I need to feel his strong hands moving over my skin, and he seems to know this, and turns over, far more awake than I would be woken from a sound sleep, and more than willing to make love. On nights like this, he lets me set the pace and call the dance, giving what I need and taking what I offer. Sometimes I throw the covers off and bend him under me with nothing but the barest slick of lube or spit to ease the way, my release an outpouring of tension and sometimes of fear—fear of failure, fear of the future, fear of loss. He brings himself off then, along with me, and holds me until I fall asleep. Sometimes I want that first, the slow build of heat along with the caresses that show how much he loves me. On those nights, I want him inside me, covering me like a shield as I kneel for him, resting on my elbows. As he wraps his big callused hand around my cock and drives into me, I feel a kind of peace settle over me along with the building pleasure. And when he empties himself into me, my name a soft growl in his voice against my neck— _Obi-Wan! Oh, Obi-Wan!_ —and I come shuddering in his hand, I feel more a part of the whole than I ever feel alone, even in my deepest meditations.

 _Some nights he prowls into the room, hot from the shower, unsettled, uncentered, half wild with furiously suppressed emotions. There’s a scorching heat and acid in his touch even as he kisses my temple and nudges my legs apart, pretending to himself that he can sleep in this state. I know what he wants, and his need provokes my desire. I roll over and kiss him, and a moment later, he throws off the covers. At his most unsettled, he wants me under him, captive and vulnerable, my legs pinned back and spread or thrown over his shoulders. He pushes into me almost dry and comes quickly, sometimes nearly sobbing his pet name for me—_ Iji aijinn! Iji aijinn! _It sounds like a plea—for help, for forgiveness, for love—as he holds himself up over me, gasping in his completion. Sometimes I think he hardly feels me caressing his face and it makes me ache for the turmoil in him. Other nights he wants to be taken from behind, as though he were doing penance. He prostrates himself on his knees in the middle of our bed, his face pressed into the sheets, breathing harshly, and waits for me to penetrate him, as though waiting for punishment. Say it or no, he wants it to hurt then, or thinks he does. I give him its semblance instead: a good hard fuck, making him scrabble at the sheets to hold on, making him cry out. When he’s close, I work his cock and make sure we both come. And afterwards, as though shriven, he sleeps the sleep of the innocent._

Likewise, he’s always careful not to wake me in the morning, especially if I’ve come in late, so I let him think he doesn’t. But even when I’ve turned away from him in the night in my restlessness, the warmth of his waking presence fills my heart with light the way the dawn fills the room. First, he stretches beneath the covers, leans over and kisses me lightly, then slips silently out of bed. Drifting in that pleasant land of half-asleep, I hear the faint rustle of his silk robe, the soft pad of his bare feet, the nearly silent opening and closing of the door. At that moment, our bed feels hugely empty, like the wastes of interstellar space. I huddle down beneath the covers to breathe in what remains of his scent and let that comfort send me back to sleep with the illusion that he’s still here.

_In the morning, I try not to wake him, though my body would like nothing better. Sometimes, if he’s caught up on his sleep, I’ll do more than peck his cheek or temple. I’ll nuzzle the spot where his braid once was and move down his neck with a line of kisses. Three or four will bring a sleepy smile to his face and make him roll over onto his back and stretch, like some overgrown oneko. I’m always surprised when he doesn’t actually start purring, he looks so happy. He reaches up to me then and pulls me down on top of him and starts to move under me, languidly at first, our cocks rubbing against each other as we kiss, then rocking up against me until we both come. Sometimes I’ll nestle up against his backside and move against him until he fumbles for the lube. Before he’s even truly awake I’ve slicked us both and slipped inside him so he wakes with a jolt from his prostate, crying out, arching back against me in pleasure as I bring him off, then slipping down into sleep again, smiling._

When he does wake me, I’m never sorry because I’m usually halfway to orgasm by the time I’ve realized where I am and what he’s about. I’ll wake with a shudder, the covers thrown back and his wonderful mouth around me, so hard it’s almost painful, the suction so strong I think he’s going to suck the life out of me. My orgasm usually blind-sides me under those circumstances, and sometimes he’s clever enough to make me wake coming. Though it’s better when he spins it out, better when I wake with him against my back, moving slowly inside me, kissing my neck, one hand pumping my cock in a leisurely way, as though we have nowhere to be for hours. Sometimes we both fall back asleep that way, it’s so comforting, and wake again later, sticky and a little sore, and amused.

_But as a rule, we don’t wake each other. Just sleeping together is one of many pleasures._

No, we don’t usually wake each other. Sometimes it’s enough just to share the same bed.

 


End file.
